Haunted By The War
by Mrs. Shikamaru Nara
Summary: People are moving on. It's been two years since Sherlock's death, but Irene and John have been doing their best to lead lives of their own, and they've been doing a fairly good job. John's met a girl; Irene's happily married. But Sherlock's coming back, and things are going to change when he does.
1. The Woman No More

Chapter 1: The Woman No More

Irene Adler was washing the dishes when her mobile rang. Just a short beep. A text, then. Hardly anyone texted her anymore. She hadn't bothered making many friends when she moved to New Jersey a few years prior; there was just Andy, and they usually waited to talk until after Andy got off work.

No, her 'friends' were all more like 'business acquaintances,' and she normally just gave them the number for the newspaper for which she often provided her services.

Consulting photographer. Or, 'freelance,' she supposed, was the official job title, but she preferred 'consulting'. It reminded her of an old friend. But regardless of official title, the job was perfect, as far as she was concerned. It allowed her to put some of her old talents to good use, and expose a few corrupt politicians in the process. She was always paid under the table; her name never accompanied any of the photos. And in any case, she no longer went by 'Irene Adler'.

As of her relocation to the States, her name was Irene Holmes.

A bit sentimental, perhaps, and she of all people knew the dangers of sentiment, but she had to change her name to _something_ to avoid being found, and the surname 'Holmes' was common without being suspiciously common. Besides, what else would she have picked? Jones? Smith? Irene _Smith_ sounded bloody ridiculous.

And besides, 'Holmes' was her only reminder of her old life in London. She spent so much of her time convincing Andy that she didn't miss it, but _oh_, how she missed it. She missed the excitement, the thrill of the chase, the feeling of the Blackberry in her hand that held enough secrets to topple the mightiest of empires. She missed being able to take the tube to Covent Garden and watch the street performers. She missed the beautiful hustle and bustle, the feeling of thousands of people's lives writhing around her, constantly changing and _being_ changed. Now, in Jersey, she had to take a bloody ferry to get that same rush, and then she had to deal with the fact that seemingly the entirety of New York City stank of urine.

But there was no point in reminiscing. She could never go back. Too dangerous, both for her and anyone she happened to run into.

She sighed deeply and dried her hands quickly before retrieving her phone from her pocket. _1 New Message,_ the screen read. _Blocked Number._

Irene, curious, unlocked her phone and read the message. Her eyes widened in shock and her grip on the phone faltered, sending it clattering to the floor where the little screen dutifully kept shining, the six words now burned into Irene's mind casually staring up at the ceiling, pretending to be insignificant but not doing a very good job.

_I'm not dead_, read the little screen. _Let's have dinner._


	2. Moving On

Chapter 2: Moving On

John had never asked Mary into 221B. She didn't completely understand why the man was being so insistent; it was just a flat, after all. John hadn't been too eager to give Mary all the details.

He'd told her about _him, _of course, but there was no way he could explain everything. He and Mary had been dating for a year, and Mary thought it might be time to move in together, but John couldn't stand the thought of some new person in 221B, actually _cooking_ in the kitchen instead of conducting mad experiments involving tobacco ash, actually _conversing_ instead of standing in front of the window composing sad music on the violin. Watching crap telly with someone else. Someone stripping the yellow smiley face off the wall, filling in the bullet holes, putting up new wallpaper. Someone else sitting in _his_ chair.

But John had decided enough was enough. It had been two years, and no amount of stubbornness or sentiment was going to bring him back now. And besides, John was serious about Mary. Very serious. He'd been carrying around an engagement ring in his pocket for months now, trying to figure out when would be a good time to pop the question, but there was always a reason not to ask. He'd taken her out for dinner the week prior at a nice place, very posh, and he'd fully intended to ask her then, but at the last minute he'd decided it hadn't felt right. It wasn't until he was falling asleep in Mary's bed that night that he'd realized why he was so uneasy. If he was serious about being with Mary—and he _was_—he'd have to move out of 221B. There was no way he and Mary would be able to live there—there was too much of _him._ They'd never be able to shag without John worrying that his, well, _spirit_ were watching them, or something.

But that wasn't the point. He just couldn't live there forever; he had to move on. So the next day, he'd approached Mrs. Hudson and informed her that he'd be moving. She'd cried a bit, murmured something about how both her boys would soon be gone, but she'd agreed to find new tenants, and more importantly, she'd told him he could keep some of _his_ things. The skull on the mantle. The chair.

Mrs. Hudson posted an advert on Craigslist later that day; she had a new prospective tenant by the evening. That was that. Mrs. Hudson was going to meet with him the following week. She'd invited John to meet with him as well. John had graciously accepted the invitation. He wanted to make sure whoever was going to be living in his flat wasn't a total dick.

But no matter.

As much as it pained him to admit that it was happening, John was moving on with his life. He was in the process of boxing his belongings when his phone rang, the sound echoing shrilly off the walls of the mostly-empty flat. He trudged over to the bookshelf, where he'd set his phone, and picked it up.

_Mary_, it read.

John pressed the "Accept Call" button.

"Hello, darling," he said flatly, looking around the flat he'd soon be leaving forever.

"Hello. You sound bloody awful. What're you up to?"

"Oh, nothing," he lied. "Just sitting around."

"I don't buy that for a second," Mary said good-naturedly. "You sound like your kitten's just died. That settles it. You're coming round, and I'm going to take you out to this charming Italian place 'round the corner. The cure for whatever is currently ailing you is almost certainly a good slice of pizza."

John could practically hear the corners of her thin pink lips turning up over the phone, and her joy was so infectious that he found himself smiling too. "Alright, see you in twenty," he said resignedly.

"Ta, love," she said, hanging up her phone.

John lowered the phone from his ear and stared down at it in wonder. How had he, _he_ of all people, managed to wrangle such a – a…_good_ woman? There was really no other word for Mary. She was simply good. John had never dated a woman with as much heart as she had, and believe him, he had a startlingly large database of ex-girlfriends to compare her to. He loved Mary, he really did.

Which was why he was finally going to ask her to marry him.


	3. Sherlock Lives

Chapter 3: Sherlock Lives

"Hello, Irene," she heard faintly from behind her. She turned around and saw the man who must have said it, but she almost didn't recognize him. The evening's waning sunlight slanted through the restaurant's windows, surrounding him in a hazy orange aura. He took a step closer to her and he came into focus. A few days' beard growth lined his jaw, the bags under his eyes showed he hadn't been sleeping well, and he was wearing grey sweatpants. He smelled awful.

"You've really let yourself go," she said. "Sherlock."

A terse smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "You've started wearing your hair differently," he observed. "The fringe suits you. However," he began, taking one of her hands in his, "I would never have expected that you would take up such a…conventional role. Happily married housewife? Most unbecoming."

Irene bowed her head slightly and chuckled. "Let me guess," she said. "My fingernails?"

"You've started wearing them short and your nail polish is cracked at the tips, as sure a sign as any that you've been washing dishes. I can even see bits of soil trapped under them, remnants from gardening. Not to mention—"

"What makes you think I haven't just been doing my own dishes?"

"There were eight tell-tale signs, but I won't bore you with the details," he said stubbornly. "But if you must know, I noticed your wedding ring."

Irene looked at her left ring finger, startled. The thin gold band sat there snugly, just where it always did. "Funny," she said. "It's been so long that sometimes I forget it's there."

"Umm, sir?" came a feeble voice as a young waiter approached them. "My manager says you have to leave if you're going to be harassing our paying customers."

"Ex_cuse_ me, I –" Sherlock snarled before Irene interrupted.

"It's alright, he's with me."

The waiter looked taken aback. "You're with the hobo?"

"I object to the term 'hobo'!" Sherlock shrieked indignantly, at the same time as Irene said, "Yes, and we're being joined by one more person later."

The waiter raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "Umm…okay? I'll get you a booth in the back, I guess." He grabbed three menus from a hidden pile and led them through the sea of tables to a secluded booth in the back of the restaurant. "Enjoy your meal," he said, turning and walking quickly back to the front of the restaurant. "Fucking weirdos," Irene thought she heard him mutter.

Sherlock quickly glanced over his menu and set it aside. "So, to business."

"To business?" Irene asked, startled. "So soon?"

"Yes, I thought it best for us to get to the purpose of our meeting immediately, and –"

"Sherlock, I think you're forgetting something. Something we should discuss before we discuss whatever you called me here for."

"Oh, yes? And what's that?"

"You were dead!"

"No I wasn't."

"Well, now that's horrifically obvious, but it was on the news, they said that you'd killed yourself. I—I thought…"

"Yes, I know what you thought. But clearly, I am very much alive. I'm afraid I can't say the same for your friend Jim Moriarty."

"What makes you so sure Jim is actually dead? You aren't."

"I'm not sure I understand the question. He shot himself in the face."

"And you jumped off Bart's."

"And you were beheaded by an Afghan terrorist cell. Yes, Irene, I am well aware that people are capable of faking their own deaths. I'd even say that I'm rather well-versed on the subject, but you weren't there. He shot himself at point-blank range, and, in case you'd forgotten, point-blank range is called 'point-blank range' because at such a short distance, _even a blank will kill you_. The gunshot was very distinct, and whether what he fired was a bullet or a blank, Jim is dead."

Irene fell silent at that, having become unused to Sherlock's cold logic over the years they'd been apart. She didn't know what she'd expected, whether she'd hoped Sherlock had changed during his years under the radar, become more friendly or even just _tolerable_, but it was abundantly clear that he was the same man she'd known three years ago. But then again, she knew he wasn't all bad. It had been Sherlock, after all, who had saved her from certain death.

While Irene had been reminiscing, Sherlock had been reading the menu. Irene could see from his cheekbones (which were even more pronounced than usual; she could tell in spite of his beard) and his hands (in which each of his bones was clearly distinguishable) that he hadn't been eating well as of late. Granted, he did currently appear to be homeless.

A kind-faced waitress arrived at their table. "Are you folks ready to order?"

"Yes, I'll have coffee, thanks. Black. Two sugars," Sherlock rattled off, not even looking at the poor waitress as he handed her his menu.

"Um, sir? It's seven o'clock at night."

"Yes, it is."

"Alright, coffee," sighed the waitress, struggling to keep her fake smile glued to her face. "And you, ma'am?"

Irene looked at Sherlock incredulously but said nothing. "Erm, the Cobb salad, and a side of French fries."

"Any drink for you, ma'am?"

"Water, please," Irene said, smiling tersely, handing her the menu.

The waitress recapped her pen and made to walk away but hesitated, eyeing the menu that was currently lying on the table, untouched.

"We're waiting for someone," Irene said flatly.

"Ah, right." The waitress turned on her heel and walked away quickly.

"So, who's our absent guest?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Hm?" Irene said distractedly, glancing up from her watch.

Sherlock gestured at the menu with a long, skinny finger.

"Oh," Irene breathed. "Andy. I don't know what's taking h—"

"Ah, the husband," Sherlock murmured, smiling smugly. "I assumed as much. Why have you invited him?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "We were supposed to be having dinner together anyway, so when I said I had to cancel, Andy wanted to know why, and I said I was meeting with an old friend." Irene started straightening her silverware absentmindedly. "For understandable reasons, I've always been very quiet about my old friends, so Andy was curious about you and wanted to meet you. So I said okay. Didn't want to arouse suspicion."

Sherlock squinted his eyes as if trying to figure Irene out. She was used to it. In fact, the first time she'd been on the receiving end of that stare was the first time they'd met. Irene grinned at the memory. There was nothing quite like entering a room stark naked just to make your guests uncomfortable. She quite enjoyed having one up on Sherlock.

"Irene!" came a sharp voice from the front of the restaurant. Irene was at attention instantly, flagging down the source of the voice. Sherlock's reaction was much slower. His head turned so minutely and gradually that it almost looked as if it weren't moving. Irene could practically feel the gears in his brain whirring, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong in his calculations. Irene smirked. Yes, it really was fun to have one up on Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Irene began, putting her arm around the new arrival's waist, "this is my wife, Andrea."

Sherlock's facial expression changed instantly from one of cold calculation to a more socially acceptable smile. "Hello, Andrea. It's nice to meet you." He extended his hand.

Andrea, to her credit, only cringed slightly as she took the disheveled and foul-smelling man's hand. "Andy, please," she said, taking her seat and glancing over her menu before setting it aside.

"So," she said apprehensively, "_you're_ Irene's old friend from London?"

"Yes, you sound shocked about that. Why do you sound shocked? Why does she sound shocked?" he asked, suddenly diverting his question to Irene.

"Maybe because you look as though you've just crawled out of a bin," Irene responded aggressively.

"Irene!" Andy said sharply. "It's okay."

Andy looked as if she wanted to say more, but she was prevented from doing so when the waitress returned with Irene and Sherlock's food.

"Salad and fries for you," she said, setting down the plates gingerly. "And…coffee. Can I get you anything, miss?" she asked Andy.

"Yes, please, I'll have a slice of pepperoni pizza."

"Of course." The waitress took Andy's menu and left.

"Is that really such a good idea?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" Irene asked.

"All that cheese," he replied, eyes sliding down to Andy's stomach, which was spilling slightly over the top of her trousers.

"Hey!" she shrieked.

Irene placed a hand on her arm. "Just let it go."

Sherlock, oblivious to the exchange, took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "There's no sugar."

Irene silently pushed the sugar caddy toward him. "Here."

Sherlock took two packets and dumped them into his cup angrily. Irene pushed the plate of fries toward him as well. "And here."

Sherlock looked up at her confusedly through his disheveled mop of curly hair. "What's this?"

"Your dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"Perhaps not, but you need to eat."

"No, I don't. If I needed to eat I would be hungry."

"Aha! And maybe if I didn't know you I'd believe you. But I do know you, Sherlock. And I know that when you're thinking about something you can go without eating for days. And that was even _with _John looking after you."

"John wasn't _looking after_ me."

"Yes, he was."

Sherlock pursed his lips as if he were holding words back by sheer power of will. He reached forward and plucked one French fry off the plate and took an exaggerated bite. "Better?"

Irene appreciated the gesture, even if his heart wasn't in it. "Quite."

The table fell into uncomfortable silence as Andy's pizza arrived. She looked down at it forlornly and then cleared her throat loudly. "Y'know, I'm just gonna go to the restroom really quick." She pecked Irene on the lips and left the booth.

"She seems nice," Sherlock said lightly, smirking.

"Oh, what is wrong with you?" Irene shrieked. "Do you get off on making people dislike you?"

"So Andy was a woman," he said, dodging the question.

Irene's mouth fell agape. "What a spectacular observation!" Irene groaned sarcastically.

"It's just –" Sherlock began haltingly, eyes narrowing, "you married a woman."

"Yes."

"I thought you fancied me."

"Oh, god, is _that_ what that was about? You're _jealous_?"

"Jealous? Why would I be jealous? _You_ fancied _me_. The feeling was never reciprocated. I just don't quite understand your…"

"Yes?"

"Well, it's just…I'm a _man_."

Irene rolled her eyes. "You realize it's not exactly a cast-iron either-or sort of situation, right?"

"Yes, right. Miss Andy is taking a while in the toilet, isn't she?"

"She's not coming back, Sherlock."

"She said she was just popping to the loo."

"She was trying to be polite. You know, you're extremely clever about a lot of things, but you are positively stupid about people. Speaking of which…does John know?"

"That I'm 'stupid about people'? Of course. He used to tell me that at least once a day."

"No, that you're _alive_, you twat."

"Don't be absurd," he said, eating another fry absentmindedly.

"_You haven't told him?!_"

"Of course not! Well, at least, not yet."

"So you plan to."

"Naturally."

Irene sighed. "Well I hope you've planned it out better than this little reunion," she deadpanned. "Gave me a bloody heart attack, that text did. _I'm not dead, let's have dinner_? What sort of God-awful poetic justice is that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, chuckling. "You've gone soft, Irene. A couple years ago, a text like that would have hardly fazed you. What's happened to you?"

"I grew up. I got married," she said. "I'm not the Irene you knew anymore."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock murmured, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "You're Irene _Holmes_ now, aren't you?"

"Piss off."

"In any event. Business."

"Yes, what mad scheme are you trying to involve me in this time?"

"I need to return to London."

Irene's eyes widened. "Honestly, that was not at all what I expected. Why?"

"Something's come up. An emergency."

"What sort of emergency?"

"Irrelevant. What _is_ relevant, however, is that I need you to book a plane ticket for me, under the pseudonym Matt Smith."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, Smith is a common last name, but Matt is common without being suspiciously common, so it's the perfect alias."

"You know, it frightens me how similarly we think about certain things," Irene said, shaking her head. "But that's not what I meant. I mean why do I have to book you a plane ticket?"

"I told you, there's an emergency."

"Yes, but why do _I_ have to book your ticket?"

Sherlock gestured to himself in explanation, but seeing that Irene wanted a verbal reply, he quietly admitted, "Because I have no money. I'm bloody homeless, Irene."

"Well how do you know about the emergency, then? You don't have a mobile or anything."

"Because I used every last penny I had to use some ruddy internet café computer for ten minutes and I _did some research_," Sherlock said poisonously.

"Alright, alright," Irene said. "Calm down."

"I am calm," Sherlock replied, viciously biting into a handful of fries.

After a brief pause, Irene asked, "Why can't you get back the same way you got here in the first place?"

Sherlock snorted. "It would take someone even smarter than me to hack into my brother's bank account on an internet café computer on this side of the Atlantic, and I'm afraid I don't have anyone of the sort on hand. No, I'm afraid this is the only way."

Irene sighed. "Fine. Okay. I'll get you a ticket."

"Thank you."

"And one more thing," Irene hedged. "When you see John…be gentle with him. The last thing he probably needs is a shock, so don't go, I dunno, jumping out of a cake or anything." Irene glared down at her salad. "And say hi to him for me."

"Don't be ridiculous; he thinks you're dead."

"Pot, kettle, darling."


	4. Miss Mary Morstan

Chapter 4: Miss Mary Morstan

As John bit into his slice of pizza, he instantly felt better. As anxious as he was about finally moving out of 221B, spending time with Mary was more than enough to make him forget his worries.

Just looking into her heavy-lidded blue eyes made him damn near forget the trials of the past couple years.

"See? You're smiling already. I told you pizza was the cure," Mary intoned with a professional air.

John's smile grew as he murmured around a mouthful of pizza, "Thanks, Doctor Morstan."

"You don't have to be quite so sarcastic about it, _Doctor Watson_," Mary sing-songed. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were," John admitted, chuckling derisively as Mary bit into her own slice of pizza, only to have the cheese stretch and stretch and stretch, forcing her to eat in a very ungraceful fashion. By the time she'd managed to maneuver all the dangling cheese into her mouth, she had tomato sauce and olive oil smeared all over her lips.

"Really, Mary, I was feeling fine already. You didn't have to put on a show."

"Piss off," she replied bitterly, her twinkling eyes betraying her amusement despite her attempt at stoicism.

John leaned across the table and pressed his lips to hers, and he felt the corners of her mouth turn up.

As he pulled away, he made a show of licking his lips to rid them of the sauce he'd just contracted from Mary. "Oh, that's tasty," he joked.

"I'm really starting to think you should give up this whole medicine thing. Comedy appears to be your true calling."

"Ha, ha, very funny," John said sardonically.

"Yes, you are. A funny little man, that's my John," Mary smirked, dabbing at her chin with her napkin.

"I'm not little!" John protested.

"Keep telling yourself that, love." Mary tucked her napkin away and took a sip of water. "Oh," she said, her facial expression shifting dramatically from distant amusement to concern. "You never said what was bothering you earlier. Something at work?"

John's eyes widened momentarily as he realized where this conversation would ultimately lead him. "No, no, work's fine."

"Have you had a row with one of your friends?"

"No."

"What, then?" Mary said, moving to take another sip of water but stopping before the glass reached her lips. Her brow wrinkled in concern. "The nightmares haven't come back, have they?"

John's throat tightened at the mere thought of the nightmares. As a matter of fact, the nightmares _were_ back, although he had no intention of telling her that. Ever since he'd started thinking about moving out of 221 B, Sherlock had haunted his dreams with a frequency that was almost foreign to John. Why, the nightmares hadn't been this frequent since Sherlock –

He couldn't even think it.

The nightmares were never the same; there was always some fresh hell awaiting John when he closed his eyes. Sometimes he saw…_him_…dead, dead in a thousand different cruel ways. Sometimes he saw him standing calmly over the broken body of some faceless person, blood-spattered but grinning toothily.

Those were the worst dreams. Those were the ones that made _his_ voice ring throughout John's unconscious brain.

"_It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty…I'm a Fake…The newspapers were right all along…tell anyone who will listen to you that I invented Moriarty for my own purposes."_

That was the heart of John's problems: the knowledge that their friendship hadn't been built on lies. It _couldn't _have been. Moriarty was real.

But what if he wasn't?

What if John was just some naïve idiot who had been too obtuse to notice that his best friend was a murdering psychopath? _He_ had always told John that he saw but did not observe. Maybe he'd been trying to tell John something? Maybe the whole time, he'd been hoping John would finally realize what had really been going on.

No, that was absurd.

John sighed. He remembered the first time he'd met Mycroft, when he'd been told, "You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it." There was a time when that had been true, and he'd thrown himself into a new, exciting war, but now John could only laugh at the irony of it all. He'd survived Afghanistan! He'd seen more bloodshed than most people had a right to ever see, had pulled shrapnel from gaping wounds, had extracted bullets from lost causes to give them false hope, had _himself_ been shot; but one fucking body lying cold on the sidewalk and –

John could no longer say he wasn't haunted by the war.

He shook himself from his reverie and remembered that Mary had asked him a question.

"No, no, that's not it," he said weakly. He swallowed. "Not the nightmares."

Mary raised an eyebrow at him, clearly not believing a word he said, but didn't pry. "What is it, then? Something's got you shaken."

John took a deep breath. "I've decided to move out of my flat."

Mary's eyes widened. "You're giving up Baker Street?! You're living in a flat on the posh side of central London for a fraction of the price anyone else would be paying, and you're _moving_?"

"It's more complicated than that."

"Obviously, it must be, because I sure as hell don't see the problem," she said, moving to take another bite of pizza but stopping before it got to her mouth. "Unless this is about Sherlock." Her face was the picture of concern.

John felt himself flinch visibly. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," Mary murmured soothingly, putting her pizza down.

"No! No, it's alright," John said haltingly. "It _is_ part of the reason."

Mary smiled sadly. "John, I promise I'll only say this once, but it's okay that it still bothers you. In fact, I'd be shocked if it _didn't_ still bother you. Your best friend killed himself " – John cringed – "and that's not something that will scar over easily. I know that it's been two years, and I know that you think that means it's been long enough for you to have come to terms with it, but that's bullshit. I know you have this weird thing about showing people that you have emotions, but you're allowed to sad. I just need to know that _you_ know that."

John looked down at his plate and bit his lip to keep himself from smiling like an idiot. He closed his eyes and chuckled silently to himself for a moment.

"What's so funny?" Mary asked indignantly.

John looked up and met Mary's eyes.

"Marry me."

Mary's mouth shut with a sharp click and her eyes widened. "What," she said flatly, not exactly a question but not exactly a statement.

John fished in his pocket for the tiny velvet box that he'd been carrying around for so long. "I'm serious," he said, opening the box and sliding it across the table. "Mary, will you marry me?"

Mary clapped her hands over her mouth as she looked down at the ring, her breathing shallow. She gingerly reached for the box and plucked the ring from its cushion. She pushed it slowly onto her left ring finger.

"You have to ask?"

John finally gave up trying to stifle his smile and let it split his face. He leaned across the table once more and kissed Mary deeply, only pulling away when he desperately needed air.

"Oh my god," he said, breathing hard and grinning like a madman. "We're getting married."


	5. Coming Back

Chapter 5: Coming Back

Plane rides had always been a problem for Sherlock. Far too long in a confined space with nothing at all to do. So boring. Well, it could have been worse. At least he wasn't bored and filthy – Irene had insisted on Sherlock taking a shower before he'd left, and had even bought him a jumper and some new trousers, so compared to the state he'd been in for the past couple years, he felt rather presentable. He hadn't shaved yet, though. He was still afraid of being recognized. Luckily, recognition hadn't been much of a problem stateside – 'Sherlock Holmes' was more of a vaguely familiar news story there than a public icon – but if he was flying back to London, someone would be sure to notice him if he looked like himself. And being noticed was the last thing he needed. Well, no. Being noticed would be the thing which _leads_ to the last thing he needed. The last thing he needed was _actually_ having Mycroft meet him at the airport. Sherlock had missed many things during his time abroad, but his brother was not one of them.

And now he had a solid 6 hours to contemplate what exactly was awaiting him when he landed. If only he had something to _do. _But he didn't. So Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and closed his eyes and—

"Would you like anything to drink, sir?"

Sherlock cracked open his eyes to see a kind-faced young woman peering down at him sweetly. Sherlock sighed. "Coffee. Black. Two sugars." Clearly he wasn't going to be getting any sleep so he might as well indulge.

"Here you go," said the stewardess as she handed him a small Styrofoam cup of what promised to be very disappointing coffee. "And can I get you anything else?"

"As it happens, yes. I'm rather bored."

The stewardess gestured to the tiny television hanging from the ceiling, which was currently playing what appeared to be a children's cartoon. "Perhaps you'd like to watch the movie, sir?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'd prefer an activity which was actually capable of stimulating my mind."

The stewardess looked a bit taken aback. "Oh, well…I could see if we have any puzzle books."

"Thank you," Sherlock drawled. The stewardess turned to walk back to the galley, but before she'd gone far, Sherlock called, "Miss?"

The stewardess stopped abruptly. "Yes?"

"If at all possible, something _other_ than Sudoku."

The stewardess blinked hard. "I'll see what I can find, sir."

Sherlock nodded at her but even as he did he knew it was a futile request. Airplanes only ever had bloody Sudoku. And if _that_ wasn't the simplest and most boring puzzle imaginable, Sherlock didn't want to know what was.

* * *

The flight passed slowly, but, as all things do, it eventually came to an end. After another hour or so in Customs, he marched into the Heathrow arrivals gate, scanning for his ride into the city. He turned in a slow circle, looking at all the drivers' carefully lettered signs. Just before he'd made a full circuit, he was nearly bowled over by a projectile. A small, mousy, flowery-scented projectile. Who was squeezing him a bit too tightly.

"Molly, you're hurting me," Sherlock murmured.

Molly immediately stepped back, embarrassed. "I'm sorry!" she shrieked. "I just – I mean – I'm just so glad that you're back, Sherl—Oh! I mean, er, Mr. Smith." She clasped her hands together so hard her knuckles turned white, as if she were physically restraining herself from hugging him again.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. He'd become rather attached to Molly in the past couple years. It had all been thanks to her, of course, that Sherlock had survived the fall off Bart's, and she remained the only person in London who knew the truth about Sherlock. She had been his only correspondent for the past two years; she'd been emailing him the news periodically, as per his request, and had been surprisingly professional about the whole thing, given that she fancied him. It was Molly who had convinced Sherlock to come back, who had finally given him cause to return to the city which had scorned him. Molly had been a good friend to him.

Sherlock placed a hand on Molly's shoulder and she inhaled sharply. "I've missed you too, Molly."

Molly's mouth fell open before forming a face-splitting grin. "Really?"

"Of course."

Molly stepped forward and gave Sherlock one more tight squeeze before turning on her heel and marching out of the airport. "C'mon! Car's this way!"

* * *

Sherlock sneezed.

"Oh, bollocks, are you allergic to cats?" Molly asked. "Sorry, it's just I haven't had time to clean the car yet and I had to take Toby to the vet a few days ago and he's been shedding like mad."

Sherlock plucked a long hair from his jumper with two long fingers. "Toby's your American Shorthair?" he asked.

Molly turned her head and gaped. A moment later, there was a chorus of angry car horns and Molly slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt at a red light. She peered into the rearview mirror and said, "Sorry!"

"Why are you apologizing? They can't hear you."

Molly sighed and met Sherlock's eyes. "I think I feel better if I tell myself I tried to apologize, even if they couldn't hear me. I dunno. It's just something I do."

"It's odd," muttered Sherlock. "What on earth distracted you, in any case?"

Molly shook her head embarrassedly. "I'm just not used to your deductions anymore. You took me by surprise, that's all."

Sherlock cocked his head at an angle and squinted at Molly, who blushed furiously. Sherlock took a deep breath and pursed his lips as if her were tasting something sour. "Sorry," he said, and then wrinkled his nose. "No, I don't like that, I don't like that at all."

The light turned green and Molly eased the car into motion.

* * *

Molly turned the key and the car's sputtering engine fell silent. They both quickly exited the car and Molly went to the boot and began pulling out groceries. "I wasn't sure whether or not you'd be hungry, so I ran out for some food. I hope you like spaghetti, because that's about all I know how to make." Molly chuckled. "Spaghetti and cat food."

After a moment, Sherlock replied, "That won't be necessary."

"Not hungry then? Alright. Well I've set up the couch for you, found a spare duvet and everything. Hope that'll be alright. I'm sure you're exhausted after the flight. Maybe you'll just want to wash up a bit and then go to bed? That's always how I am after I've been to visit my gran. And that's not even after a plane ride; that's just after taking the train from Aberdeen. You've never met my gran, have you? I think you'd like her. She's great at Scrabble, might even be a decent match for you. How about _that_, Sherlock? Fancy a game or something before bed?" Molly waited for a reply but received none. "Sherlock, really, I know you're not the biggest conversationalist but it'd be great if you could at least answer a question if I ask one." Still nothing.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked tentatively, finally getting a bit concerned. She turned slowly, afraid of what she'd see. When she'd finally made a full 180 degree turn, she dropped her groceries. Sherlock was gone. Simply gone. Molly scanned the street, looking for anywhere he could have gone, or anyone who could have taken him, but saw only one thing: a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, parked right across the street.

That could only mean one thing. "Damn," Molly spat, kicking the wheel of her car, starting when the alarm sounded. She quickly extracted the key from her pocket and switched off the alarm, feeling like a bloody idiot. She looked at the boxes of dry noodles scattered all over the ground and sighed. "Damn," she whispered as she bent to pick them up.

* * *

**Author's Note**: To the people who have been reading my fic, a tremendous 'Thank you' is in order. This is the part of the fic where I start groveling for reviews. But seriously - when you guys tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, etc. it helps me a lot, and I really want to continue writing this fic in a way that's enjoyable for everyone. So PLEASE REVIEW!


	6. The British Government

Chapter 6: The British Government

Sherlock had noticed the sedan the moment he'd climbed out of Molly's car. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Molly was asking him something, and he responded with a delayed, "That won't be necessary."

Molly continued talking as Sherlock walked toward the sedan. There was no point in making a scene; Sherlock knew he'd have to have this conversation eventually. He just hadn't thought it'd take place quite so soon after his arrival in London. He opened the door of the sedan and climbed in.

"What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

"Now, now, Sherlock, is that any way to talk to your brother? It's been two years, after all. You could at least say hello before biting my head off," drawled Mycroft.

Sherlock sighed. "Hello, brother," he said grudgingly. "Now why are you here? How did you know I'd be here?"

Mycroft smiled smugly. "I don't know if you're aware, but in the time you've been away, we've added facial recognition software to the CCTV system. The program registered a possible match for Sherlock Holmes in the Heathrow airport, so I investigated. Imagine my surprise when that possible match got into a car with none other than Molly Hooper, one of Sherlock Holmes' known associates." Mycroft turned his head toward Sherlock. "Big Brother is always watching."

"Don't justify your privacy violations with clever puns," Sherlock spat venomously. "Why was I even in the database if you put in the program after everyone thought I was dead?"

Mycroft chuckled quietly and flexed his fingers, resting them on the handle of his ever-present umbrella. "Well, you see, about a week after you jumped, two thousand pounds went missing from my personal bank account. Call it a hunch, but I thought to myself, _who would possibly have the nerve to steal money from under the nose of her majesty's right-hand man_?" Mycroft met Sherlock's eyes with a triumphant wink. "You might as well have autographed the bank statement. I always knew you'd be coming back; it was just a question of _when_."

Sherlock pouted. He hated it when his brother was right. "Surely you intend to do something with this conversation aside from gloat?"

Just like that, Mycroft's cheeky smile faded and his face was all business. "Yes," he hedged. "You understand that your return poses several…problems."

"Such as?"

"Well, you became somewhat of a public figure after your involvement in the Reichenbach case, so your 'death' received an inordinate amount of news coverage. Every station, every newspaper, every magazine. They _all_ had stories about how the fraud detective had killed himself rather than deal with his shame. There's not a person in Britain who doesn't know the story."

"I assume you're going somewhere with this."

"Yes, hush. As I was saying, everyone knows you're dead, so it might come as a shock when word gets out that you're well…not. And word _will_ get out. But this needs to be handled rather…" Mycroft pursed his lips as he searched for the right word, "delicately."

"And let me guess, you're looking for a solution?"

"Yes. And as much as it pains me to say this…I need your help."

Sherlock smiled widely and chuckled. "You're so lucky I'm a genius."

"Yes, yes, don't get all high and mighty. Just tell me what to—"

"You need to find a woman called Kitty Riley, a reporter."

Mycroft blinked in confusion. "You mean the reporter who told everyone you were a fake, the woman who hates you? _That_ Kitty Riley?"

"Yes."

"Why on earth would we want her?"

Sherlock sighed. "Honestly, for someone who thinks he's so smart, you can be a downright simpleton."

"Don't call me a—"

"She started the rumour that I was a fake. Everyone else was simply following suit. The only way anyone will be receptive to me not just being alive, but to Moriarty being real, is if the news comes from her."

"But she's been very vocal about you. She'd never write a word painting you in a decent li—"

"I have every confidence that her majesty's government will be very persuasive. Now if you'll excuse me," Sherlock said, pushing open the car door, "I've got a friend waiting for me."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Once more, PLEASE REVIEW! Your feedback is greatly appreciated.


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